


Bala-fucking-mory

by Poose



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Bathrooms, Bruises, Fantasy, Kink Meme, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ollie thinks about Malcolm and has a wank. Straightforward masochistic stuff, so do avoid if that's not your thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bala-fucking-mory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wreathed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/gifts).



  
It had been one of those days, Ollie thought, shouldering his way into the gents and through to the last stall on the left, the one with the seat that wasn't attached quite correctly, so it did sort of a slidey-about thing when you tried to sit on it, and, consequently, no one ever did.   
  
Since giving up smoking, Ollie always found himself at a loss for what to do with himself, not to mention his fucking hands, when he got to that point in the day-- when Nicola had wibbled and wobbled about some arse-backwards jargon for the better part of an hour long meeting, during which Helen had sat opposite him with her arms crossed with that disdainful look she got when he hadn't returned her texts with a tight enough turnaround. Black coffee could only hold off the itch so much, and three p.m. was too early for drinking, so a wank it would have to be. _Take the edge off, that's all._  
  
Ollie squeezed himself into the stall, and breathed in deeply.   
  
Then he grimaced, coughed, and pulled a face, because the air smelt of wee.   
  
"Fucking Ben," he grumbled, because it _would have to be_ Ben, wouldn't it? Fat, sweaty, bloody stupid Ben who'd probably be playing Tetris and eating Hobnobs while he went for a slash. No wonder there was piss all over the place.   
  
Couldn't be Dan, he reasoned. They played squash together, and Ollie knew from observation that upright citizen, broomstick-up-the-bum Dan Miller would never do anything so indecorous as piss on the floor. Hell, Dan had probably never even splashed the seat even as a child.   
  
Ollie breathed in again, this time twisting his face away from the smell, and exhaling through his mouth. He slumped against the grey metal, rubbing his temples. The headache he always seemed to get after lunch was back. Ollie pinched between his eyes.   
  
A long day and it was only fucking Tuesday. Ages to the weekend, with three more days of corralling Nicola, dodging Helen, sucking up to Dan, and having increasingly weird, clandestine meetings with Malcolm.   
  
 _Ollie,_ he'd say, hand pinching into Ollie's upper arm as he frogmarched him into a cupboard, around a corner, down a stairwell. _Ollie, look, here's the fucking story,_ he would say, and then mention some other stuff, important stuff, as it later turned out, about timing and emails and dates. Ollie, for his part, registered only the bruising press of Malcolm's fingertips, which left purple spots on his skin even through his suit.   
  
Ollie touched his upper arm. The most recent mark had faded almost entirely, but if he pushed down hard enough, it would still send a tingle of pain down to his balls.   
  
He bit his lip; his cock stiffened. Ollie licked his palm. With his eyes closed, he reached down, slipped a hand beneath his waistband and let it slip, sticky, across his cock.  
  
He closed fingers around himself, his opposite index finger nudging into the meaty part of his skinny arm, the bit with the bruise. His breath quickened. Ollie's cock was heavy in his hand, his balls growing sweaty as he rocked into his fist. Thinking of Malcolm.   
  
Malcolm pushing him, through doorways, into offices, toilets, stairwells. Would that Malcolm would _keep_ pushing, on his head, or his shoulder.   
  
 _Get on your fucking knees, Ollie, it's fucking where you belong. Open your mouth, there's a good lad. Christ, I'm surprised your face didn't freeze like that back at school. Don't fucking look at me, you upstart little shite. Are you fucking touching yourself? Jesus, you make me sick._  
  
There was no time, now, to dwell on the state of Ollie's sexual imagination, a veritable Sarajevo-sniper-block, riddled with oral fixation and authority issues, because he was past the point of self-censorship. He needed to fucking _come_.   
  
Ollie fucked into his hand, and pushed, and pushed. The bruise hurt, but not enough, never, never enough.   
  
Afterwards, he felt substantially better. He didn't even crave a fag. His lungs were clear, from the exertion, and when he looked into the mirror, as he wiped his hands dry, his eyes were bright.   
  
Half a dozen paces down the hall, he ran into Malcolm. Ollie shoved his hands into his pockets, even though he'd washed them. If anyone would know he'd just been for a wank, it would be  Malcolm, with his creepy sixth sense. 

  
"Listen," Malcolm rasped, after he looked around, in his uber-paranoid way. "Listen," he repeated, as he touched Ollie's upper arm, "here's the fucking story."   
  
And then he squeezed.

Hard.


End file.
